Oh, Death
by SugarGlazed
Summary: There are many reapers, but only one Death. Her name is Irina, and her role is to march the Earth with her brothers, ushering in the End Time. But without warning, she meets the Antichrist and is spellbound. She will have his soul whatever difficulties may occur. Even if she has to make a deal with Cordelia to achieve it.
1. Spellbound

Her interest had been peeked, and very seldom did Irina feel this way about a soul. Amused – sometimes – but never intrigued. Her assessment of humans and their standard of living was unbiased.

_I am Death, all the same. _Which made her weigh up the current seething mass of thoughts that were rooted in her brain. As an Ancient, her role was set in stone; usher in the end time. She had no part in the future of the Antichrist – yes, Irina was aware of his existence – but Michael Langdon had caught her attention.

He killed one of her own, at the age of 3.

This should have not been possible. Spirits such as Psychopomps were not easy to kill. They materialized as anthropomorphic entities, cajoling softly into the ears of dying humans. Their role was not to judge the deceased, but simply to guide them – a job Irina gave them.

Much too fast to see, a mere nursling, even one as unique as Michael should not have been able to remove it from existence.

_Such a waste, _Irina remarked. Such a loyal worker reduced to a pile of ash on the floor. She gave it no words of compassion and simply blew the remnants away. It was her fault that it was here; in the home of Constance Langdon – a vulgar husk of a human Death longed to reap – because it was respecting her desires not to encounter the spawn of Satan.

But here she was, inches away from him; inches away from the empty shell of his nanny, whose throat was split from ear to ear. Carnage never bothered her – gave her the heebie jeebies as the young called it. No, what irritated her was the fact that her Psychopomp died in vein. The soul it was sent to reap and guide was missing.

_Soul destruction … only some Ancients posses this application. _Satan certainly passed on to his spawn a doozy of a skill. This made the situation dire; Irina could not send her spirits to collect the souls of humans killed by the Antichrist. There simply was nothing but a cold body and a wet patch of blood left, slathered feverously on the floor as Michael decorated the room in tiny handprints like a young Castiglia.

Irina wondered how Constance would cover this up, and for a moment she thought about sticking around just to see, but decided she'd much rather leave – Death got bored frequently.

Before she did, however, Irina turned and observed Michael. He was precious – for a human – even though his skin was dirtied with fresh blood. A fond smile curled her pale lips. The hell this child would bring about.

"One would think the offspring of Satan would be frightening. But he is like every person I have ever met … human."

Out of the blue, young Michael spun and looked her way. Irina thought he may have seen and heard her, but she knew that was not possible. Death was invisible to humans; no one saw her unless she allowed them to, which she did not. In spite of this, however, Michael raised his hands and presented them.

"Wook!"

Irina widened her pale eyes. She was generally surprised; she was visible to him.

"Oh my," she gasped. Her shock lasted only but a few minutes, then she moved towards Michael with ease. Taking his small hands in her own, Irina laughed at the sudden chill that swept over him. She understood that she could easily kill him if she wanted, but it was not her place to toy with fate.

"Look at you; such a mess. Grandmother is not going to be pleased," she cooed.

Michael only laughed. Her attention was his.

Escorting him to the rocking chair across the room, and seating him onto it, the Pale Horseman gave him another fond smile. She said nothing more, because the door creaked open and Constance Langdon entered with a shock.

Irina backed off – pale eyes following her every move – and brought her finger up to her lips.

At that moment she vanished into oblivion with an oath to return to him one day. She was spellbound.


	2. Clarity

Sorrow; she recognized it, but was not moved. Humans mourned all the time. This response did not inconvenience her, but something about his sorrow brought a tear to her eye.

Irina returned to him – as a promise to herself – but Michael was not as he should be. He was grown; from a nursling to a young adult, in a span that was considered impossible to humans. She dwelled little on the details, and reminded herself that Michael was no ordinary human. What tickled her was how hasty Satan was to bring about the End Times. Death wondered to what extreme he'd take; maturing the Antichrist, for example.

Frankly, she did not care. His concerns were not her own, but his spawn, he was growing on her. Irina stood in the frame of his room, witnessing what she could only describe as heart ache. Michael was crying into his pillow like a newborn – the reason she did not know, or care to know, for that matter. But, it was poignant. A cold tear fell down her pale cheek.

"Such a beautiful tragedy," Irina breathed.

His attention had been grabbed. Michael jerked in shock and looked at her. He couldn't see much, because of the darkness, but her outline was plain as the nose on his face. To him, the person he saw was an abyss; a black entity whose being there cast a chill in the room. Even so, he did not want her to come near.

"Leave me alone," he pleaded.

Irina grinned at this. "Or what, dear? Will you kill me?"

"I don't want to – I never meant to hurt anyone – but I can."

He was indeed a broken mess. It baffled her. Apparently being the Antichrist came with no instruction manual. Michael was but a neophyte gifted with endless power that he could not fathom.

"Do not insult me. Not even God has that power. Seal me away, on the other hand, now that is something he takes pleasure in." She curled up her nose in disgust at this. Being roped in chains beneath the Earth until he felt it necessary to release her was tedious.

"Too much to absorb in one night I assume," Irina added. "But to enlighten you, I am Death."

Michael sat up in his bed. The chill of the room brought goosebumps to his arms. His head slanted in question. "My woman in black is Death? I remember you."

"It is flattering that you do. Not many people get the chance to see me a second time."

Making her way around to the side of his single bed – heels clicking softly on the hardwood floor – Irina sat on the edge, turning at a slant to look at his face. She was absorbed; Michael was indeed a gorgeous human. It was a shame his pale eyes held such distress.

"How you have grown," she cooed. Her lips curled into a smile. "I expected a precious boy sleeping peacefully in the night. Imagine my surprise."

Michael matched her smile. She was just like he recalled, albeit she appeared his age. Though it was hard to tell, given that his room was dark and part of her face was veiled in black mesh. At once, a thought occurred to him, and his brows knitted in concern.

"Are you here to kill me?"

"No, my dear. It is not my place to change fate. You simply interest me is all. Something about you is … hypnotic."

His eyes teared up. "I'm a monster. How can you be interested in a thing like me?"

Death reached out her hand and touched his face. "Because normal bores me. Do not think much of it – I myself do not know the true reason."

She rubbed away his tears and added, "This pain is not becoming of someone like you. Leave it. Rest is what you need."

"Will you stay with me?"

Shaking her head, Irina shot down his offer. "I am not here for your comfort. But I will come if ever you should need me. Now is not that time, however."

Michael was uncertain. He felt like he needed her now. His dark guardian brought clarity to his mind. The events from earlier, where he about killed his grandma felt inconvenient now. He liked Death; he wanted her to stay by his side. But first he needed to listen, so he allowed her to go.

"All right."

Pleased by this, Irina pulled herself from the bed, descending into the darkness.

"How do I get a hold of you?"

Before she vanished, she answered him.

"Bequest me a soul. I will know it is you who rang."

Cold tears fell down her cheek. Such a beautiful tragedy; a soul whose purpose she wanted – needed – to find.

_His soul is mine._


	3. As Thick as Thieves

A/N: A little reminder when reading this story. It doesn't contain a lot of information, nor broadens as it goes along, due to the nature of it's chapters. I never intended for them to be so detailed, because they jump around a bit at first. But that will change the further the story goes.

Also, I finish each chapter off a bit early, but that doesn't mean the loose ends will left untied. Death and Michael are just getting to know each other a little first.

I do hope those who read this are enjoying it. More information on the horsemen will be disclosed later, so no worries on that.

* * *

Someone to love him; this desire alone sank Michael into sadness and doubt. His heart was like glass; it broke with ease. Especially when the focus of his intended life turned their back on him, seeing as he was beyond help. How was he to stop? It was in his nature to destroy. The unfortunate, lost thing just didn't know it yet.

Death felt letdown. She expected more; less tears and less regret. It bothered her to see him like this, sobbing quietly on the floor. He clearly was in need of relief, but Irina was in no such mood. The only reason she came when he called was because of the souls.

But, her appeal had waned upon seeing the state in which he left them; reduced to nothing but an outline. Anger was an issue with him, Irina assumed. He seemed to lash out against anyone and everything that frustrated him. This made her uneasy, only because she was in too deep to pull out; she would not allow herself to walk away from something she felt was part of the natural order. God or the Antichrist – she and her brothers were meant to follow one or the other, and Michael had risen first.

But he was far from ready, in her opinion.

Like a child without a clue, he needed guidance. It was contrary to her role as Death to assist him, but as Irina – the lonesome; the woman – it was expected. They needed one another, more than she wanted to admit.

As for Michael, he was an open book. He latched onto everyone who showed him even a semblance of consideration. Death was aware; the new focus of his interest was her. From the moment she saw him, and vice versa, this obsession – like a cancer – spread inside of him. One small, random act of kindness was all it required, and she felt no regret by stoking the flames.

Which is why she stuck around, even when her mood soured. It irritated her to no end when she didn't get what was promised to her, but honestly all this was her fault for not being clear with him.

Irina clasped her hand into a fist, then released it. With a gentle sigh, she leaned down in front of Michael and looked him over, using her fingers to move his hair from his sad eyes. However, his gaze was on everything but her. She ignored him for now and continued with her checkup.

What bewildered her the most about this, was the costume he had on. She puckered her brow and traced her finger down his arm and over his knuckles – warm blood dirtied her skin. The smooth rubber felt cold and tight; too tight in her opinion.

"What brought this on? Such a strange choice of attire."

Even now, he said nothing, but his chapped lips drew apart like he wanted to. All she heard was his gentle sobs of pain.

_So many unanswered questions with this one. _Irina wondered if her Antichrist in training had a rubber fetish, or enjoyed being treated like a pet – she smiled at this.

Tangling her fingers into his blond curls, she gently rubbed his scalp until he visibly relaxed.

"You called, and now I am here. What is it you need, dearest?"

She worked his head up to have a better look at his face, but with a yank he pulled himself free, grimacing as her painted nails dug into his pale skin. His behavior irritated her.

"Michael, a patient woman I am not. Now stop this – whatever it is – and tell me the reason."

His chin trembled. "I h-have no one else. They've all turned their backs on me."

"You need no one," Death stated bitterly. She had a feeling she knew where this was going, and she wanted nothing to do with it. His tears moved her; saying that he needed her might actually crush her. "Not me, and especially not your heartless grandmother."

Michael looked at her – wide eyed – and feverishly shook his head in disagreement. "Don't say that. I need you more than ever."

Empathy consumed Irina, but she would not allow it to show. Scoffing at the heartbroken blond, she stood back onto her feet. His red eyes followed her every move with concern, especially when she eased away from him.

"Where are you going?"

She curled up her nose. "Don't act daft. It is a lonely and ugly world out there, and no one is going to just hand you an instruction manual. Get your shit together."

Turning to leave, Michael shouted for her to stop. She didn't and before she realized it, she heard loud and angry footsteps at her back. A gloved hand tangled her long hair into a knot and yanked – her vertebrae cracked from the sudden motion. Irina opened her mouth, but the order she tried to shout was cut off by her own gasp of shock as Michael shoved a small and extremely sharp blade into her chest.

It hurt terribly, but the irritation she felt made it seem irrelevant. Knocking him back and onto the floor with force, Irina pulled a scalpel from her pale skin and tossed it. Her blood poured from the wound and ebbed down the neck of her low cut dress.

"Remember this, making an enemy of me is unwise," Death spoke sharply.

She had every intention to leave; every intention to abandon Michael like the few before her, but seeing his devastated face put her anger on ice. He was like her; lost and beyond help. What he needed was someone to love him for who he was. Irina wanted to be that someone.

"Understand dear, I can not help you figure out the reason behind your birth. It's for you and you alone, but … I can be the one you lean on in your time of need."

Michael again shook his head. "I hurt you; I hurt them." He motioned to the lifeless bodies inches away from himself.

Irina couldn't stop herself from laughing at this. "The wound can be covered – I have many – and killing me will take more than you are capable of. I have told you this before."

She moved across the expanse of the foyer and leaned down in front of him. His swollen eyes stared at the puncture in her chest, and questions began to fill his mind. However, he figured they were ill suited for this moment and pushed them to the back of his mind. There was only one he needed to know.

"You won't leave me?"

Irina shook her head. "I can not always be at your side, but no, I will not leave you no matter how terrible you become."

"Promise," Michael whispered. He smiled as she agreed with a nod, and leaned against her. "I will never harm you again, my lady in black."

She pet his head. "Call me Irina. It is a name I have grown accustomed to."

_Irina. _He liked the way her name rolled off his tongue.


End file.
